Mementoes of Average Jones' exploits in his chosen field hang on thewalls of his quiet sanctum. Here the favored visitor may see thetwo red-ink dots on a dated sheet of paper, framed in with the cardof a chemist and an advertised sale of lepidopteroe, which drove afamous millionaire out of the country. Near by are displayed theexploitation of a lure for black-bass, strangely perforated (a man'sreason hung on those pin-pricks), and a scrawled legend which seemsto spell "Mercy" (two men's lives were sacrificed to that); whilebelow them, set in somber black, is the funeral notice of a dogworth a million dollars; facing the call for a trombone-player whichmade a mayor, and the mathematical formula which saved a governor.But nowhere does the observer find any record of one of theAd-Visor's most curious cases, running back two thousand years; forits owner keeps it in his desk drawer, whence the present chroniclerexhumed it, by accident, one day. Average Jones has always insistedthat he scored a failure on this, because, through no possible faultof his own, he was unable to restore a document of the highesthistorical and literary importance. Of that, let the impartialreader judge.
It was while Average Jones was waiting for a break of that deadlock of events which, starting from the flat-dweller with the poisoned face,finally worked out the strange fate of Telfik Bey, that he sat, onemorning, breakfasting late. The cool and breezy inner portico ofthe Cosmic Club, where small tables overlook a gracious fountainshimmering with the dart and poise of goldfish, was deserted savefor himself, a summer-engagement star actor, a specialist incarbo-hydrates, and a famous adjuster of labor troubles; the fourmen being fairly typical of the club's catholicity of membership.Contrary to his impeccant habit, Average Jones bore the somewhatfrazzled aspect of a man who has been up all night. Furtherindication of this inhered in the wide yawn, of which he was inmid-enjoyment, when a hand on his shoulder cut short his ecstasy.
"Sorry to interrupt so valuable an exercise," said a languid voice."But--" and the voice stopped.
"Hello, Bert," returned the Ad-Visor, looking up at the faultlesslyclad slenderness of his occasional coadjutor, Robert Bertram. "Sitdown and keep me awake till the human snail who's hypotheticallyministering to my wants can get me some coffee."
"What particular phase of intellectual debauchery have you been upto now?" inquired Bertram, lounging into the chair opposite.
"Trying to forget my troubles by chasing up a promising lead whichfailed to pan, out. 'Wanted: a Tin Nose,' sounds pretty good, eh?"
"It is music to my untutored ear," answered Bertram.
"But it turned out to be merely an error of the imbecile, or perhapsfacetious printer, who sets up the Trumpeter's personal column. Itshould have read, 'Wanted--a Tea Rose."'
"Even that seems far from commonplace."
"Only a code summons for a meeting of the Rosicrucians. I supposeyou know that the order has been revived here in America."
"Not the true Rosicrucians, surely!" said Bertram.
"They pretend to be. A stupid lot who make child's play of it,"said Average Jones impatiently. "Never mind them. I'd rather knowwhat's on your mind. You made an observation when you came in,rather more interesting than your usual output of table-talk. Yousaid 'but' and nothing further. The conjunction 'but,' in politegrammar, ordinarily has a comet-like tail to it."
"Apropos of polite grammar, do you speak Latin?" asked Bertramcarelessly.
"Not enough to be gossipy in it."
"Then you wouldn't care to give a job to a man who can't speakanything else?"
"On that qualification alone?"
"No-o, not entirely. He is a good military engineer, I believe."
"So that's the other end of the 'but,' is it?" said Average Jones."Go on. Elaborate."
Bertram laid before his friend a printed clipping in clear, largetype, saying: "When I read this, I couldn't resist the notion thatsomehow or other it was in your line; pursuit of the adventure oflife, and all that. Let's see what you make of it."
Average Jones straightened in his chair.
"Latin!" he said. "And an ad, by the look of it. Can our blindfriend, J. Alden Honeywell, have taken to the public prints?"
"Hardly, I think. This is from the Classical Weekly, a Baltimorepublication of small and select patronage."
"Hm. Looks ra-a-a-ather alluring," commented Average Jones with aprolonged drawl. "Better than the Rosicrucian fakery, anyhow."
He bent over the clipping, studying these words.
L. Livius M. F. Praenestinus, quodlibet in negotium non inhonestumqui victum meream locare ve lim. Litteratus sum; scriptum facerebene scio. Stipendia multa emeritus, scientiarum belli, prasertimmuniendi, sum peritus. Hac de re pro me spondebit M. Agrippa.Latine tantum solo. Siquis me velit convenire, quovis die maneadesto in publicis hortis urbis Baltimorianae ad signum apri.
"Can you make it out?" asked Bertram.
"Hm-m-m. Well--the general sense. Livius seems to yearn in modernprint for any honest employment, but especially scrapping of theancient variety or secretarying. Apply to Agrippa for references.Since he describes his conversation as being confined to Latin, Itake it he won't find many jobs reaching out eagerly for him.Anybody who wants him can find him in the Park of the Wild Boar inBaltimore. That's about what I make of it. Now, what's his littlelay, I wonder."
"Some lay of Ancient Rome, anyhow," suggested Bertram. "Associationwith Agrippa would put him back in the first century, B. C.,wouldn't it? Besides, my informant tells me that Mr. Livius, whoseems to have been an all-around sort of person, helped organizefire brigades for Crassus, and was one of the circle of minor poetswho wrote rhapsodies to the fair but frail Clodia's eyebrows,ear-lobes and insteps."
"Your informant? The man's actually been seen, then?"
"Oh, Yes. He's on view as per advertisement, I understand."
Average Jones rose and stretched his well-knit frame. "Baltimorewill be hotter than the Place-as-Isn't," he said plaintively."Martyrdom by fire! However, I'm off by the five-o'clock train.I'll let you know if anything special comes of it, Bert."
Barye's splendid bronze boar couches, semi-shaded, in the center ofMonument Park, Baltimore's social hill-top. There Average loungedand strolled through the longest hour of a glaring July morning.People came and went; people of all degrees and descriptions, noneof whom suggested in any particular the first century, B. C. Oneindividual only maintained any permanency of situation. He was agaunt, powerful, freckled man of thirty who sprawled on a settee andregarded Average Jones with obvious and amused interest. In timethis annoyed the Ad-Visor, who stopped short, facing the settee.
"He's gone," said the freckled man.
"Meaning Livius, the Roman?" asked Average Jones.
"Exactly. Lucius Livius, son of Marcus Praenestinus."
"Are you the representative of this rather peculiar person, may Iask?"
"It would be a dull world, except for peculiar persons," observedthe man on the settee philosophically. "I've seen very manypeculiar persons lately by the simple process of coming here dayafter day. No, I'm not Mr. Livius' representative. I'm only atown-bound and interested observer of his."
"There you've got the better of me," said Average Jones. "I wasrather anxious to see him myself."
The other looked speculatively at the trim, keen-faced young man."Yet you do not look like a Latin scholar," he observed; "if you'llpardon the comment."
"Nor do you," retorted Jones; "if the apology is returnable."
"I suppose not," owned the other with a sigh. "I've often thoughtthat my classical capacity would gain more recognition if I didn'thave a skin like Bob Fitzsimmons and hands like Ty Cobb.Nevertheless, I'm in and of the department of Latin of Johns HopkinsUniversity. Name, Warren. Sit down."
"Thanks," said the other. "Name, Jones. Profession, advertisingadvisor. Object, curiosity."
"A. V. R. E. Jones; better known as Average Jones, I believe?"
"'Experto crede! Being dog Latin for 'You seem to know all aboutit."' The new-comer eyed his vis-a-vis. "Perhaps you--er--knowMr. Robert Bertram," he drawled.
"Oculus--the eye--tauri--of the bull. Bull's eye!" said the freckledone, with a grin. "I'd heard of your exploits through Bertram, andthought probably you'd follow the bait contained in my letter tohim."
"Nothing wrong with your nerve-system, is there?" inquired AverageJones with mock anxiety. "Now that I'm here, where is L. Livius.And so forth?"
"Elegantly but uncomfortably housed with Colonel Ridgway Graeme inhis ancestral barrack on Carteret Street."
"Is this Colonel Graeme a friend of yours?"
"Friend and--foe, tried and true. We meet twice a week, usually athis house, to squabble over his method of Latin pronunciation andhis construction of the ablative case. He's got a theory of theablative absolute," said Warren with a scowl, "fit to fetch Tacitushowling from the shades."
"A scholar, then?"
"A very fine and finished scholar, though a faddist of the rankesttype. Speaks Latin as readily as he does English."
"Old?"
"Over seventy."
"Rich?"
"Not in money. Taxes on his big place keep him pinched; that andhis passion for buying all kinds of old and rare books. He's got,perhaps an income of five thousand, clear, of which about threethousand goes in book auctions."
"Any family?"
"No. Lives with two ancient colored servants who look after him."
"How did our friend from B. C. connect up with him?"
"Oh, he ran to the old colonel like a chick to its hen. You see,there aren't so very many Latinists in town during the hot weather.Perhaps eighteen or twenty in all came from about here and fromWashington to see the prodigy in 'the Park of the Boar,' after theadvertisement appeared. He wouldn't have anything to do with any ofus. Pretended he didn't understand our kind of Latin. I offeredhim a place, myself, at a wage of more denarii than I could wellafford. I wanted a chance to study him. Then came the colonel andfairy grabbed him. So I sent for you--in my artless professionalway."
"Why such enthusiasm on the part of Colonel Graeme?"
"Simple enough. Livius spoke Latin with in accent which bore outthe old boy's contention. I believe they also agreed on theablative absolute."
"Yes--er--naturally," drawled Average Jones. "Does our early Romanspeak pretty ready Latin?"
"He's fairly fluent. Sometimes he stumbles a little on hisconstructions, and he's apt to be--well--monkish--rather thanclassical when in full course."
"Doesn't wear the toga virilis, I suppose."
"Oh, no. Plain American clothes. It's only his inner man that'sRoman, of course. He met with bump on the head--this is his story,and he's got a the scar to show for it--and when he came to, he'dlost ground a couple of thousand years and returned to his formerexistence. No English. No memory of who or what he'd been. Nomoney connection whatsoever with the living world."
"Humph! Wonder if he's been a student of Kippling. You remember'The Greatest Story in the World; the reincarnated galley slave?Now as to this Colonel Graeme; has he ever published?"
"Yes. Two small pamphlets, issued by the Classicist Press, whichpublishes the Classical Weekly."
"Supporting his fads, I suppose."
"Right. He devoted one pamphlet to each."
Average Jones contemplated with absorbed attention an ant which wasmaking a laborious spiral ascent of his cane. Not until it hadgained a vantage point on the bone handle did he speak again.
"See here, Professor Warren: I'm a passionate devotee of the Latintongue. I have my deep and dark suspicions of our present modes ofpronunciation, all three of 'em. As for the ablative absolute, itsreconstruction and regeneration have been the inspiring principle ofmy studious manhood. Humbly I have sat at the feet of Learning,enshrined in the Ridgway Graeme pamphlets. I must meet ColonelGraeme--after reading the pamphlets. I hope they're not long."
Warren frowned. "Colonel Graeme is a gentleman and my friend, Mr.Jones," he said with emphasis. "I won't have him made a butt."
"He shan't be, by me," said Average Jones quietly. "Has it perhapsstruck you, as his friend, that--er--a close daily association withthe psychic remnant of a Roman citizen might conceivably benon-conducive to his best interest?"
"Yes, it has. I see your point. You want to approach him on hisweak side. But, have you Latin enough to sustain the part? He'sshrewd as a weasel in all matters of scholarship, though a childwhom any one could fool in practical affairs."
"No; I haven't," admitted Average Jones. "Therefore, I'm a mute. Ashock in early childhood paralyzed my centers of speech. I talk toyou by sign language, and you interpret."
"But I hardly know the deaf-mute alphabet."
"Nor I. But I'll waggle my fingers like lightning if he saysanything to me requiring an answer, and you'll give the properreply. Does Colonel Graeme implicitly credit the Romanism of hisguest?"
"He does, because he wants to. To have an educated man of theclassic period of the Latin tongue, a friend of Caesar, an auditorof Cicero and a contemporary of Virgil, Horace and Ovid come backand speak in the accent he's contended for, make a powerful supportfor his theories. He's at work on a supplementary thesis already."
"What do the other Latin men who've seen Livius, think of themetempsychosis claim?"
"They don't know. Livius explained his remote antecedents onlyafter he had got Colonel Graeme's private ear. The colonel has keptit quiet. 'Don't want a rabble of psychologists and soul-pokersworrying him to death,' he says."
"Making it pretty plain sailing for the Roman. Well, arrange totake me there as soon as possible."'
At the Graeme house, Average Jones was received with simple courtesyby a thin rosy-cheeked old gentleman with a dagger-like imperial anda dreamy eye, who, on Warren's introduction, made him free of theunkempt old place's hospitality. They conversed for a time, AverageJones maintaining his end with nods and gestures, and (ostensibly)through the digital mediumship of his sponsor.
Presently Warren said to the host:
"And where is your visitor from the past?"
"Prowling among my books," answered the old gentleman.
"Are we not going to see him?"
The colonel looked a little embarrassed. "The fact is, ProfessorWarren, Livius has taken rather an aversion to you."
"I'm sorry. How so?"
A twinkle of malice shone in the old scholar's eye. "He says yourLatin accent frets his nerves," he explained.
"In that case," said Warren, obeying a quick signal from hisaccomplice, "I'll stroll in the garden, while you present Mr. Jonesto Livius."
Colonel Graeme led the way to a lofty wing, once used as adrawing-room, but now the repository for thousands of books, whichnot only filled the shelves but were heaped up in every corner.
"I must apologize for this confusion, sir," said the host. "No oneis permitted to arrange my books but myself. And my efforts, Ifear, serve only to make confusion more confounded. There are fourother rooms even more chaotic than this."
At the sound of his voice a man who had been seated behind a tumulusof volumes rose and stood. Average Jones looked at him keenly. Hewas perhaps forty-five years of age, thin and sinewy, with aclose-shaven face, pale blue eyes, and a narrow forehead runninghigh into a mop of grizzled locks. Diagonally across the front partof the scalp a scar could be dimly perceived through the hair.Average Jones glanced at the stranger's hands, to gain, if possible,some hint of his former employment. With his faculty of swiftobservation, he noticed that the long, slender fingers were not onlymottled with dust, but also scuffed, and, in places, scarified, asif their owner had been hurriedly handling a great number of books.
Colonel Graeme presented the new-comer in formal Latin. He bowed.The scarred man made a curious gesture of the hand, addressingAverage Jones in an accent which, even to the young man'slong-unaccustomed cars, sounded strange and strained.
"Di illi linguam astrinxere; mutus est," said Colonel Graeme,indicating the younger man, and added a sentence in sonorousmetrical Greek.
Average Jones recalled the Aeschylean line. "Well, though 'a greatox hath stepped on my tongue,' it hasn't trodden out my eyes,praises be!" said he to himself as he caught the uneasy glance ofthe Roman.
By way of allaying suspicion, he scribbled upon a sheet of paper afew complimentary Latin sentences, in which Warren had sedulouslycoached him for the occasion, and withdrew to the front room, wherehe was presently joined by the Johns Hopkins man. Fortunately, thecolonel gave them a few moments together.
"Arrange for me to come here daily to study in the library,"whispered Jones to the Latin professor.
The other nodded.
"Now, sit tight," added Jones.
He stepped, soft-footed, on the thick old rug, across to the librarydoor and threw it open. Just inside stood Livius, an expression ofstartled anger on his thin face. Quickly recovering himself, heexplained, in his ready Latin, that he was about to enter and speakto his patron.
"Shows a remarkable interest in possible conversation," whisperedJones, on his withdrawal, "for a man who understands no English.Also does me the honor to suspect me. He must have been a wilychap--in the Consulship of Plancus."
Before leaving, Average Jones had received from Colonel Graeme ageneral invitation to spend as much time as he chose, studying amongthe books. The old man-servant, Saul, had orders to admit him atany hour. He returned to his hotel to write a courteous note ofacknowledgment.
Many hours has Average Jones spent more tediously than those passedin the cool seclusion of Colonel Ridgway Graeme's treasure-house ofprint. He burrowed among quaint accumulations of forgottenclassics. He dipped with astonishment into the savage andultra-Rabelaisian satire of Von Hutter's "Epistola, ObscurorumVirorumf" which set early sixteenth century Europe a-roar withlaughter at the discomfited monks; and he cleansed himself from thattainted atmosphere in the fresh air and free English of a splendidAudubon "first"--and all the time he was conscious that the Romanwatched, watched, watched. More than, once Livius offered aid,seeking to apprise himself of the supposed mute's line ofinvestigation; but the other smilingly fended him off. At the endof four days, Average Jones had satisfied himself that if Liviuswere seeking anything in particular, he had an indefinite taskbefore him, for the colonel's bound treasures were in indescribableconfusion. Apparently he had bought from far and near, withoutdefinite theme or purpose. As he bought he read, and having read,cast aside; and where a volume fell, there it had license to lie.No cataloguer had ever sought to restore order to that bibliographicriot. To seek any given book meant a blind voyage, without compassor chart, throughout the mingled centuries.
Often Colonel Graeme spent hours in one or the other of the hugebook-rooms talking with his strange protege and making copiousnotes. Usually the old gentleman questioned and the other answered.But one morning the attitude seemed, to the listening Ad-Visor, tobe reversed. Livius, in the far corner of the room, was speaking ina low tone. To judge from the older man's impatient manner theRoman was interrupting his host's current of queries withinterrogations of his own. Average Jones made a mental note, and,in conference with Warren that evening, asked him to ascertain fromColonel Graeme whether Livius's inquiries had indicated a specificinterest in any particular line of reading.
On the following day, however, an event of more immediate importoccupied his mind. He had spent the morning in the up-stairslibrary, at the unevadable suggestion of Colonel Graeme, while thecolonel and his Roman collogued below. Coming down about noon,Average Jones entered the colonel's small study just in time to seeLivius, who was alone in the room, turn away sharply from the desk.His elbow was held close to his ribs in a peculiar manner. He wasconcealing something under his coat. With a pretense of clumsiness,Average Jones stumbled against him in passing. Livius drew away,his high forehead working with suspicion. The Ad-Visor's expressionof blank apology, eked out with a bow and a grimace, belied thebusy-working mind within. For, in the moment's contact, he hadheard the crisp rustle of paper from beneath the ill-fitting coat.
What paper had the man from B. C. taken furtively from hisbenefactor's table? It must be large; otherwise he could havereadily thrust it into his pocket. No sooner was Livius out of theroom than Average Jones scanned the desk. His face lighted with asudden smile. Colonel Graeme never read a newspaper; boasted, infact, that he wouldn't have one about the place. But, as AverageJones distinctly recalled, he had, himself, that very morningbrought, in a copy of the Globe and dropped it into the scrap basketnear the writing-table. It was gone. Livius had taken it.
"If he's got the newspaper-reading habit," said Average Jones tohimself, "I'll set a trap for him. But Warren must furnish thebait."
He went to look up his aide. The conference between them was longand exhaustive, covering the main points of the case from thebeginning.
"Did you find out from Colonel Graeme," inquired Average Jones,"whether Livius, affected any particular brand of literature?"
"Yes. He seems to be specializing on late seventeenth centuryBritish classicism. Apparently he considers that the flower ofBritish scholarship of that time wrote a very inferior kind of dogLatin."
"Late seventeenth century Latinity," commented Average Jones."That--er--gives, us a fair start. Now as to the body-servant."
"Old Saul? I questioned him about strange callers. He said heremembered only two, besides an occasional peddler or agent. Theywere looking for work."
"What kind of work?"
"Inside the house. One wanted to catalogue the library."
"What did he look like?"
"Saul says he wore glasses and a worse tall hat than the colonel'sand had a full beard."
"And the other?"
"Bookbinder and repairer. Wanted to fix up Colonel Graeme'scollection. Youngish, smartly dressed, with a small waxedmoustache."
"And our Livius is clean-shaven," murmured Average Jones. "How longapart did they call?"
"About two weeks. The second applicant came on the day of the lastsnowfall. I looked that up. It was March 27."
"Do you know, Warren," observed Average Jones, "I sometimes thinkthat part of your talents, at least, are wasted in a chair ofLatin."
"Certainly, there is more excitement in this hide-and-seek game, asyou play it, than in the pursuits of a musty pedant," admitted theother, crackling his large knuckles. "But when are we going tospring upon friend Livius and strip him of his fake toga?"
"That's the easiest part of it. I've already caught him filling afountain-pen as if he'd been brought up on them, and humming thespinning chorus from The Flying Dutchman; not to mention the liftingof my newspaper."
"Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit," murmured Warren.
"No. As you say, no fellow can be on the job all the time. But ourproblem is not to catch Livius, but to find out what it is he's beenafter for the last three months."
"Three months? You're assuming that it was he who applied for workin the library."
"Certainly. And when he failed at that he set about a verycarefully developed scheme to get at Colonel Graeme's books anyway.By inquiries he found out the old gentleman's fad and proceeded toget in training for it. You don't know, perhaps, that I have acorps of assistants who clip, catalogue and file all unusualadvertisements. Here is one which they turned up for me on my orderto send me any queer educational advertisements: 'Wanted--Dailylessons in Latin speech from competent Spanish scholar. Write, Box347, Banner office.' That is from the New York Banner of Aprilthird, shortly after the strange caller's second abortive attempt toget into the Graeme library."
"I suppose our Livius figured out that Colonel Graeme's theory ofaccent was about what a Spaniard would have. But he couldn't havelearned all his Latin in four months."
"He didn't. He was a scholar already; an accomplished one, who wentwrong through drink and became a crook, specializing in rare booksand prints. His name is Enderby; you'll find it in the Harvardcatalogue. He's supposed to be dead. My assistant traced himthrough his Spanish-Latin teacher, a priest."
"But even allowing for his scholarship, he must have put in a dealof work perfecting himself in readiness of speech and accent."
"So he did. Therefore the prize must be big. A man of Enderby'scaliber doesn't concoct a scheme of such ingenuity, and go intobondage with it, for nothing. Do you belong to the Cosmic Club?"
The assistant professor stared. "No," he said.
"I'd like to put you up there. One advantage of membership is thatits roster includes experts in every known line of erudition, fromscarabs to skeeing. For example, I am now going to telegraph foraid from old Millington, who seldom misses a book auction and is ahuman bibliography of the wanderings of all rare volumes. I'm goingto find out from him what British publication of the lateseventeenth century in Latin is very valuable; also what volumes ofthat time have changed hands in the last six months."
"Colonel Graeme went to a big book auction in New York early inMarch," volunteered Warren, "but he told me he didn't pick upanything of particular value."
"Then it's something he doesn't know about and Livius does. I'mgoing to take advantage of our Roman's rather un-B.-C.-like habit ofreading the daily papers by trying him out with this advertisement."
Average Jones wrote rapidly and tossed the result to his coadjutorwho read:
"LOST--Old book printed in Latin. Buff leather binding, a little faded ('It's safe to be that,' explained Average Jones). No great value except to owner. Return to Colonel Ridgway Graeme, 11 Carteret Street, and receive reward."The advertisement made its appearance in big type on the front pagesof the Baltimore paper of the following day. That evening AverageJones met Warren, for dinner, with a puckered brow.
"Did Livius rise to the bait?" asked the scholar.
"Did he!" chuckled Average Jones. "He's been nervous as a cat allday and hardly has looked at the library. But what puzzles me isthis." He exhibited a telegram from New York.
"Millington says positively no book of that time and description anygreat value. Enderby at Barclay auction in March and made row oversome book which he missed because it was put up out of turn incatalogue. Barclay auctioneer thinks it was one of Percivalprivately bound books 1680-1703. Am anonymous book of Percivallibrary, De Meritis Librorum Britannorum, was sold to Colonel Graemefor $47, a good price. When do I get in on this?
"(Signed), ROBERT BERTRAM."
"I know that treatise," said Warren. "It isn't particularly rare."
Average Jones stared at the telegram in silence. Finally hedrawled: "There are--er--books and--er--books--and--er--things inbooks. Wait here for me."
Three hours later he reappeared with collar wilted, but spiritselate, and abruptly announced:
"Warren, I'm a cobbler."
"A what?"
"A cobbler. Mend your boots, you know."
"Are you in earnest?"
"Certainly. Haven't you ever remarked that a serious-mindedearnestness always goes with cobbling? Though I'm not really apractical cobbler, but a proprietary one. Our friend, Bertram, willdress and act the practical part. I've wired him and he's replied,collect, accepting the job. You and I will be in the background."
"Where?"
"NO. 27 Jasmine Street. Not a very savory locality. Why is it,Warren, that the beauty of a city street is generally in inverseratio to the poetic quality of its name? There I've hired the shopand stock of Mr. Hans Fichtel for two days, at the handsome rentalof ten dollars per day. Mr. Fichtel purposes to take a keg of beera-fishing. I think two days will be enough."
"For the keg?"
"For that noble Roman, Livius. He'll be reading the papers prettykeenly now. And in to-morrow's, he'll find this advertisement."
Average Jones read from a sheet of paper which he took from hispocket:
"FOUND--Old book in foreign language, probably Latin, marked 'Percival.' Owner may recover by giving satisfactory description of peculiar and obscure feature and refunding for advertisement. Fichtel, 27 Jasmine Street."
"What is the peculiar and obscure feature, Jones?" asked Warren.
"I don't know."
"How do you know there is any?"
"Must be something peculiar about the book or Enderby wouldn't putin four months of work on the chance of stealing it. And it must beobscure, otherwise the auctioneer would have spotted it."
"Sound enough!" approved the other. "What could it be? Someinterpolated page?"
"Hardly. I've a treatise in my pocket on seventeenth centurybook-making, which I'm going to study to-night. Be ready for anearly start to meet Bertram."
That languid and elegant gentleman arrived by the first morningtrain. He protested mightily when he was led to the humbleshoe-shop. He protested more mightily when invited to don a leatherapron and smudge his face appropriately to his trade. His protests,waxing vehement and eventually profane, as he barked hisdaintily-kept fingers, in rehearsal for giving a correctrepresentation of an honest artisan cobbling a boot, died away whenAverage Jones explained to him that on pretense of having found arare book, he was to worm out of a cautious and probably suspiciouscriminal the nature of some unique and hidden feature of the volume.
"Trust me for diplomacy," said Bertram airily.
"I will because I've got to," retorted Average Jones. "Well, get towork. To you the outer shop: to Warren and me this rear room. And,remember, if you hear me whetting a knife, that means come at once."
Uncomfortably twisted into a supposedly professional posture,Bertram wrought with hammer and last, while putting off, with lame,blind and halting, excuses, such as came to call for their promisedfootgear. By a triumph of tact he had just disposed of arancid-tongued female who demanded her husband's boots, asatisfactory explanation, or the arbitrament of the lists, when thebell tinkled and the two watchers in the back room heard a nervous,cultivated voice say:
"Is Mr. Fichtel here?"
"That's me," said Bertram, landing an agonizing blow on histhumb-nail.
"You advertised that you had found an old book."
"Yes, sir. Somebody left it in the post-office."
"Ah; that must have been when I went to mail some letters to NewYork," said the other glibly. "From the advertised description, thebook is without doubt mine. Now as to the reward--"
"Excuse me, but you wouldn't expect me to give it up without anyidentification, sir?"
"Certainly not. It was the De Meritis Libror--"
"I can't read Latin, sir."
"But you could make that much out," said the visitor with risingexasperation. "Come; if it's a matter of the reward--how much?"
"I wouldn't mind having a good reward; say ten dollars. But I wantto be sure it's your book. There's something about it that youcould easily tell me sir, for any one could see it."
"A very observing shoemaker," commented the other with a slightsneer. "You mean the--the half split cover?"
"Swish-swish; whish-swish," sounded from the rear room.
"Excuse me," said Bertram, who had not ceased from his pretendedwork. "I have to get a piece of leather."
He stepped into the back room where Average Jones, his face alight,held up a piece of paper upon which he had hurriedly scrawled:
"Mss. bound into cover. Get it out of him. Tell him you've abrother who is a Latin scholar."
Bertram nodded, caught up a strip of calf-skin and returned.
"Yes, sir," he said, "the split cover and what's inside?"
The other started. "You didn't get it out?" he cried. "You didn'ttear it!"
"No, sir. It's there safe enough. But some of it can be made out."
"You said you didn't read Latin."
"No, sir; but I have a brother that went through the Academy. Hereads a little."' This was thin ice, but Bertram went forward withassumed assurance. "He thinks the manuscript is quite rare. Oh,Fritz! Come in."
"Any letter of Bacon's is rare, of course," returned the otherimpatiently. "Therefore, I purpose offering you fifty dollarsreward."
He looked up as Average Jones entered. The young man's sleeves wererolled up, his face was generously smudged, and a strip of cobbler'swax beneath the tipper lip, puffed and distorted the firm line ofhis mouth. Further, his head was louting low on his neck, so thatthe visitor got no view sufficient for recognition.
"Lord Bacon's letter--er--must be pretty rare, Mister," he drawledthickly. "But a letter--er--from Lord Bacon--er--aboutShakespeare--that ought to be worth a lot of money."
Average Jones had taken his opening with his customary incisiveshrewdness. The mention of Bacon had settled it, to his mind. Onlyone imaginable character of manuscript from the philosopherscholar-politician could have value enough to tempt a thief ofEnderby's calibre. Enderby's expression told that the shot was atrue one. As for Bertram, he had dropped his shoemaker's knife andhis shoemaker's role.
"Bacon on Shakespeare! Shades of the departed glory of IgnatiusDonnelly!"
The visitor drew back. Warren's gaunt frame appeared in thedoorway. Jones' head lifted.
"It ought to be as--er--unique," he drawled, "as an--er--AncientRoman speaking perfect English."
Like a flash, the false Livius caught up the knife from the benchwhere the false cobbler had dropped it and swung toward AverageJones. At the moment the ample hand of Professor Warren, bunchedinto a highly competent fist, flicked across and caught theassailant under the ear. Enderby, alias Livius, fell as if smittenby a cestus. As his arm touched the floor, Average Jones kickedunerringly at the wrist and the knife flew and tinkled in a farcorner. Bertram, with a bound, landed on the fallen man's chest andpinned him.
"'Did he get you, Average?" he cried.
"Not--er--this time. Pretty good--er--team work," drawled theAd-Visor. "We've got our man for felonious assault, at least."
Enderby, panting under Bertram's solid knee, blinked and struggled.
"No use, Livius," said Average Jones. "Might as well quiet down andconfess. Ease up a little on him, Bert. Take a look at that scarof his first though."
"Superficial cut treated with make-up paint; a clever job,"pronounced Bertram after a quick examination.
"As I supposed," said Average Jones.
"Let me in on the deal," pleaded Livius. "That letter is worth tenthousand, twelve thousand, fifteen thousand dollars--anything youwant to ask, if you find the right purchaser. And you can't manageit without me. Let me in."
"Thinks we're crooks, too?" remarked Average Jones. "Exactly what'sin this wonderful letter?"
"It's from Bacon to the author of the book, who wrote about 1610.Bacon prophesies that Shakespeare, 'this vagabond and humble mummer'would outshine and outlive in fame all the genius of his time.That's all I could make out by loosening the stitches."
"Well, that is worth anything one could demand," said Warren in asomewhat awed tone.
"Why didn't you get the letter when you were examining it at theauction room?" inquired Average Jones.
"Some fool of a binder had overlooked the double cover, and sewed itin. I noticed it at the auction, gummed the opening together whileno one was watching, and had gone to get cash to buy the book; butthe auctioneer put it up out of turn and old Graeme got it. Bringit to me and I'll show you the 'pursed' cover. Many of the Percivalbooks were bound that way."
"We've never had it, nor seen it,"' replied Average Jones. "Theadvertisement was only a trap into which you stepped."
Enderby's jaw dropped. "Then it's still at the Graeme house," hecried, beating on the floor with his free hand. "Take me backthere!"
"Oh, we'll take you," said Warren grimly.
Close-packed among, them in a cab, they drove him back to CarteretStreet. Colonel Ridgway Graeme was at home and greeted themcourtesly.
"You've found Livius," he said, with relief. "I had begun to fearfor him."
"Colonel Graeme," began Average Jones, "you have--"
"What! Speech!" cried the old gentleman. "And you a mute! Whatdoes this mean?"
"Never mind him," broke in Enderby Livius. "There's something moreimportant."
But the colonel had shrunk back. "English from you, Livius!" hecried, setting his hand to his brow.
"All will be explained in time, Colonel," Warren assured him."Meanwhile, you have a document of the utmost importance and value.Do you remember buying one of the Percival volumes at the Barclayauction?"
The collector drew his brows down in an effort to remember.
"An octavo, in fairly good condition?" he asked.
"Yes, yes!" cried Enderby eagerly. "Where is it? What did you dowith it?"
"It was in Latin--very false Latin." The four men leaned forward,breathless. "Oh, I remember. It slipped from my pocket and fellinto the river as I was crossing the ferry to Jersey."
There was a dead, flat, stricken silence. Then Average Jonesturned hollow eyes upon Warren.
"Professor," he said, with a rueful attempt at a smile, "what's thepast participle, passive, plural, of the Latin verb, 'to sting'?"